


Play Me A Song

by CaptainOfShips



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brotherly Love, Coma, Pre-John Watson, Violins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 19:29:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainOfShips/pseuds/CaptainOfShips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Sherlock is in a coma from a case accident. Whatever the doctors try, he won't wake up. Mycroft, as a last ditch effort, plays the violin, but not well. He tells the doctors one more day. one more day. as he learns. Eventually, he learns and plays for Sherlock, who awakens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play Me A Song

**Author's Note:**

> For: AuroraDefae (Seriously. You should read her work: http://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraDefae/pseuds/AuroraDefae)  
> Special thanks to Sarah L. for helping me write violin things, which I had no knowledge about (Same with the hospital things in here. Just bare with me.)
> 
> Note: This is all before John Watsons time.
> 
> Enjoy!

_He's not going to make it._  
  
The six words no one wants to here, no matter what your relation is to the sick, or dying, patient. These six words just happened to be told upon to Mycroft Holmes, spoken about his baby brother who was currently lying in the hospital, comatose from an accident about three weeks ago.  
  
The younger Holmes hadn't eaten anything, the doctors inferred, in over a week, and the cocaine usage was worse than anyone had noticed. Yet, Sherlock went off to solve a case of a deadly murderer, almost getting killed from delayed reactions, and dull senses. Some of Mycroft's men found him: stabbed at least twice in the stomach and left to die.  
  
 _He's lost too much blood, not enough oxygen in the body. His brain functions were already low from the drugs...._  
  
Mycroft had drowned the doctors out. He was not going to let his dear brother die.  
  
“Fire these idiots. They clearly do not know what they are talking about.” he had told his assistant.  
  
“Mycroft. You're under a lot of stress right now, I understand, but these are the best doctors in England, and they are doing the best they can to keep him alive.” Anthea responded.  
  
Three weeks later, and the detective had still yet to wake.  
  
The doctors had told the elder Holmes to do something that may tell Sherlock's subconscious he was there: reading his favorite book, playing his favorite song, just talking to him about anything he enjoyed.  
  
Of course, Mycroft had grown very distant from his brother over the past years, and what he did remember about Sherlock, he had sure grown out of by now. (Such as his dream to be a pirate).  
  
But, this changed when Gregory Lestrade had stopped by Sherlock's hospital room, “Myself, and a couple of others, went by his flat to do the drugs bust you asked. His flat was a mess; papers were thrown everywhere, like he had a temper tantrum before he left. Everything seemed to be destroyed except for his violin.” the delicate wood instrument was polished to perfection, not a single scratch was to be seen. The only flaw was that it had not been cared for by it's owner for some time now.  
  
Mycroft thanked Gregory, and wait until he was alone to place the base of the violin under his neck. He had taken a few violin lessons as a younger boy, but it never really was his thing. While he became a master at universal languages and manipulating people with words, the younger Holmes became a violin prodigy.  
  
When everything seemed to be in place, he slowly slid the bow across the strings. It produced a highly unpleasant sound, but hidden in there, somewhere, was the sound a violin should make. But, the sound Mycroft produced was enough to stir something in the comatose detective. His head moved a fraction to the right, and his heart beat increased by two beats.  
  
That's when the elder Holmes knew what he must do.  
  
That evening, Mycroft went home with the precious wood instrument. There was old music from his childhood tucked away in forgotten boxes in his attic, so he pulled that out, and that's where he began.  
  
Over the next few days, Mycroft went over the basics: learning the notes, chords, how to put everything together so it sounded mostly decent. Within a week, the government man was playing simply rhythms. Memories of his lessons as a child were hidden deep in his mind, vaguely, but enough that we was learning quicker than he might have been without them.  
  
When Mycroft wasn't at work, or watching his dear brother, he was at his home, playing Sherlocks mastered instrument. So, within about three weeks, Mycroft had mastered the violin to the equivalent of someone playing at least a year. (Thank you again to childhood lessons).  
  
It had been over a month since Sherlock was comatose in the hospital (progression was growing worse, instead of better. The doctors were losing hope of recovery) when Mycroft went to visit his brother, but this time with the violin held tightly in one hand, the bow of it in the other. Thankfully, most of the doctors were out on lunch break at the time, giving him time alone with the sleeping detective.  
  
Upon entering the room, he shrugged off his jacket before getting straight to work. He cradled the neck of the violin with one hand, placing the other end under his chin. He had already tuned the delicate instrument before he left, so when everything was placed to his liking, he carefully drew the bow over the strings, creating a soft sound.  
  
First, he just started with random notes in random patterns, gradually playing more melodic chords and rhythms. He really didn't prepare any specific songs to play, so he played whatever felt natural to him, creating a soft, sweet melody. His eyes closed as he did so.  
  
Machines beeped around him, indicated Sherlock's breathing and heartbeat were slowly growing faster, more than they had in the past month.  
  
Mycroft wasn't sure how long he stood there, producing gentle sounds from the violin, which abruptly came to a quick halt when the weak, broken voice of the younger Holmes whispered, “Mycroft?”  
  
“Brother, dear.”


End file.
